What I Wouldn't Do
by Min Daae
Summary: John finds out what Sam is meant to be. Pre-series.


_It laughed, the sound harsh and raucous through the vocal cords of the woman it was possessing, shaking with mirth. "What do you know about your boy _Sammy, _John?" It said. _

_Demons lied. John Winchester lowered his eyes to the page and found his place, continued reading, raising his voice. The laughter became mixed with a scream. "You don't know. You don't want to listen. But I'm going to tell you-" _

_He raised his voice. The woman was now writhing, the demon inside her fighting all the way to avoid being forced out. "—tell you," she gasped, "What Sammy is. What he's meant to be, why your _wife _died-_"

_John cut off. "Demons lie," he said. The laugh scraped against his ears, awful and dark. "Why should I believe you?" _

_He returned to reciting the exorcism. The woman threw back her head and howled, and-_

"_He's our _heir! _Sammy Winchester is heir to the throne of Hell!" _

_~.~  
_

He drove home with his hands shaking.

_What Sammy is. What he's meant to be, why your wife died._

Demons lied. But maybe they told the truth when they knew it would hurt. Mary had died in Sam's nursery, right over his crib. It was a possibility that the thing that had done it – a demon, he was now almost sure – could have done something, been interrupted in some dark deed that would transform his youngest son…

_Sammy Winchester is heir to the throne of Hell! _

He pressed harder on the gas, getting home to the boys suddenly more urgent than ever. They were safely ensconced in a motel room, thinking he was off on a 'trip' – a werewolf, for Dean, business, for Sam - the doors and windows salted. Sam, who was six, and Dean, ten; still just _boys. _

_Heir to the throne of Hell…_

Who knew what demons could do to babies? Who knew what kind of dark demonic magic might be working in Sam's blood right now, slowly turning him into something else, something _evil. _He'd always been such a stubborn, difficult child-

No. No, that was – children were like that sometimes. Difficult. Just because Dean hadn't been didn't mean that it was some kind of sign-

And yet, and yet. What else could he do? Stand by and wait, and hope? Watch his youngest son change into something inhuman, beyond recognition, _heir to Hell itself? _Or kill him now, still innocent, still human?

Had any father ever had to face such a choice?

The motel came into view in his windshield and he swung the wheel in a sharp left into the parking lot. John sat very still in the car, clenching his hands on the wheel, the sound of the demon's laughter echoing in his ears. There was hope, of course. Demons did lie. Often, and brutally.

But Mary had died in Sam's room. But there was a possibility they told the truth. But there had always been something strange about Sam-

Or perhaps he was just imagining that now, now that he knew.

"Shit," John swore, and slammed his hand against the dash. He felt heartsick and furious as he slid slowly out of the car, grabbing his duffel. After a moment, he removed the bowie knife, staring at its gleam in the dark for several seconds. He stood up and opened the motel room door with one hand, the heavy knife in the other.

It would be quieter than the gun, he thought, practically. Less messy, too.

Oh _god. _

_What he's meant to be. _

What kind of a legacy was that for a boy to grow into? A good boy, a sweet boy with Mary's eyes – and her stubbornness. Better that it never came to that. Better that he ended this now.

He closed the door quietly, but Dean still heard it and lifted his head from where he was lying on the couch, the glow of the TV illuminating his slightly bleary face. "Dad?" He said, nearly whispered, sounding confused.

John couldn't help himself. He went over and brushed Dean's hair off his forehead, ruffled it. "I'm back, in one piece. Everything's fine. Go back to sleep."

"Sam's in the bedroom," Dean said, already subsiding. "But you can make him move if you need to, he can come out here and sleep with me."

John's heart lurched. Dean. Dean would never forgive him. There would be nothing he could say to make Dean understand.

"All right, son," he said, though he could see his hand shaking slightly as he withdrew it. "I think it'll be fine, though. You just go to sleep."

"Mmkay," Dean said, agreeably. "Glad you're back safe."

Safe. When were they ever safe, really? What kind of a life was this for two boys? Maybe it would have been better to-

No, he couldn't choose regrets now. John grimaced, and just withdrew from Dean. "Yeah," he said roughly. "Me too."

Sam was in the bedroom. John stalled, going into the bathroom and splashing his face with water, the bowie knife to the left a silent accusation even as he tried to clear his mind. What was he supposed to do? Cross his fingers and hope that the demon had been lying? Wait and see? He'd taught his boys not to take chances. If there was even a little bit of doubt, kill it. If it was supernatural, kill it. If it was demonic, kill it fast and hard if you could. If you couldn't…

He imagined Sam, _Sammy, _looking at him with a sneer on his lips and black eyes lid to lid, his laugh cruel and hard. _He's our heir! _The demon screamed, and she had sounded not afraid but jubilant, as though all her hopes for the future were wound up in that one fact.

She'd believed it.

That didn't mean anything. Demons were smart, in a nasty sort of way, knew how to twist things around so you thought they were saying one thing when it was really another. (It did mean something. It meant he was standing in the bathroom with a knife that he was going to have to use to kill his youngest son, or else the whole world might suffer for it.)

John leaned his head against the mirror and tried to imagine what Mary would have thought about his contemplating this at all. _He's your son, _he imagined her saying. _So protect him. _

And what if it was already too late for that?

He picked up the knife, swallowing hard. And stepped out of the bathroom, bracing himself. He might lose two sons. Was that worth the possibility of saving strangers in the distant future?

He looked over toward the couch, but Dean didn't stir again. He felt a pang. He would have given anything for more delay, for something to happen to stop him. For anything to happen to stop him.

Nothing came. John stepped into the bedroom.

He could hear Sam's breathing, slow and deep and even. He still slept like a baby, every night, quiet the whole time without stirring once. He tried to train wakefulness into the boy, but it never seemed to stick. Finally John put it down to his age and gave up, hoping that it would pass. Sooner rather than later.

He knew he was avoiding the topic. He knew just as well that he couldn't do anything else.

John stepped forward and looked down at Sam. He was curled up in a tiny bundle of blankets and dinosaur pajamas, hand-me-downs from Dean that were still too big for him. He looked tiny and harmless, his little face scrunched up as if in deep thought, hands clutching the blanket up by his face.

He looked like innocence, John thought. How could he possibly let anything corrupt that innocence?

But even if it meant killing him?

John weighed the knife in his hand. He could see the pulse point in Sam's neck. Stab through that and it would take only about thirty seconds for him to bleed out. In the meantime, though, he would be choking on his own blood. Or there, he could pinpoint through the blankets the curve of Sam's rib cage. If he hit just right he could probably take out the heart and one lung. Possibly faster. But still the same problem with suffocation and pain.

Death hurt. He knew that, had watched enough people die that he knew there was no real way to make it peaceful if it wasn't natural causes. Even sleeping tablets, he'd read, caused feelings of suffocation and panic in the last stages…

There was no way he could kill Sam without it hurting. Nothing he could do to somehow make what he was contemplating miraculously better.

Sam shifted, his face turning up towards John, and he hefted the knife again. He looked so young. So intrinsically harmless. Surely there was no way to be sure…

_He's our heir! Sammy Winchester is heir to the throne of Hell! _

Again, the conviction in her voice trapped him.

It was for the best. Wait and watch him turn or kill him now, still innocent. Who knew when it would be? It could be tomorrow, or the next day, or years. He had to do the hunter thing now, more than the father thing. Kill it before the thing became a problem.

_But this was his son. _

He raised the knife, and then looked down and found Sam's eyes open, staring up at him. "Dad?" he said, voice high and young. "What's the matter?"

_Now, _John thought. _Do it now. _His arm froze. He saw Sam's mouth turn downwards, and then his eyes flicked to the knife and widened. _Now! _John thought again. He could imagine himself bringing the knife down and through that narrow, young chest, other hand covering Sam's mouth so he didn't scream and wake Dean –

But he couldn't do it.

"—Dad?" Sam sounded nervous, scared. John closed his eyes.

"I thought I saw something," he lied. Sam tensed at once and flipped over, eyes searching the darkness.

"Saw what? The boogeyman?"

John wanted to snap that the boogeyman wasn't specific enough, it was a broad term that covered a number of real, more frightening things. He just shook his head. "I was just imagining things. Go to sleep, Sam."

Sam looked up at him. _Now, _John thought, one last time, but Sam's eyes were full of trust and sleep and he lowered the knife to where Sam couldn't see it. "Are you okay, Dad?" Sam asked, sounding worried.

_Heir to the throne of Hell! _

John shook his head, slightly, but said, "Yes, I'm fine." Sam looked puzzled, and John reached out and ruffled his hair, just as he had Dean's. "Just go to sleep. I'll be stretching out next to you in a minute."

"Okay," Sam said. "If you're sure." He yawned. "Dean promised he'd sleep on the bed tomorrow…make sure to remind him, 'kay?"

John turned away and nodded, feeling his shoulders slump. "I'll do that, Sammy."

He walked out of the bedroom and out to the car, stuffed the bowie deep into his duffel, knowing he'd never use it again. Would just have to get a new knife.

He still had two sons. He didn't really feel any better.

John stepped back inside, pulled out a bottle of liquor and poured himself a glass. He gulped half of it down and looked toward the bedroom where Sam was probably already back asleep, unaware that he could have died tonight. Dean was fast asleep too, unaware of how close he'd come to losing his little brother.

He'd just have to watch, John told himself. Watch carefully and closely for any sign. And if Sam started to turn…then he'd do it. Not before. Then he'd kill his son to keep him from becoming a monster.

John knew he was lying to himself. He couldn't do it tonight. He wouldn't be able to do it later, either.

He took another deep drink and leaned back, watching the door, and didn't go to sleep at all that night.

~.~

_He passed it on. _

_Twenty-two years later and he still wasn't sure, had never been sure. But someone had to know. He had to be able to trust that if worst came to worst, someone would do what had to be done. _

"_Dean," he said, when Sam had gone to get coffee. "If it comes to it…I need you to know. Save Sam. Or if you can't save him, then kill him." _

_He'd never been able to do it. Never been able to try again, even._

_But Dean would do better. If worst came to worst…he didn't have to fear. _


End file.
